


eyes in my teeth, i can't see 'cause i'm eating

by trash_cactuar



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Hannibal Lecter Cooks, Minor Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Stream of Consciousness, Wine, just throw me in the trash, oh no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14271567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_cactuar/pseuds/trash_cactuar
Summary: When Will closes his eyes to sleep, he returns to the cursed wood once again, and sighs in frustration.  “This is becoming a chore,” he mutters to no-one in particular,  following the blood laid out like a red carpet on white snow.





	eyes in my teeth, i can't see 'cause i'm eating

The invitation arrives on Monday morning, amidst a jumble of bills and glossy ads, in a crisp bone-white envelope that smells faintly of flowers. Will Graham briefly considers throwing it out with the rest of the junk mail before tucking it under his arm and walking back to the house. He tosses it onto the coffee table, and pats the head of a passing dog.

It sits there unopened the rest of the day, seducing him, mocking him, never straying from his thoughts as he moves from class to class, trying to open the minds of bored and transfixed students to the inner workings of those who kill, and kill, and kill.

_See._

 When Will goes to sleep that night, he dreams of a dark, snowy wood. The smell of leaf litter and fresh blood fills his entire being. He looks down and sees a sticky black pool on the ground. Cloven hoofprints and a red smear lead deeper into the trees, and he follows the trail for what seems like hours.

The tracks lead to a large black stag, covered in feathers. The beast is gorging itself on a corpse, snuffling and snorting as it tears apart skin and bones, seeming to savor every bite. The copper-and-rot smell of the forest is almost overpowering, and Will realizes to his horror that he is hungry. Something in him, some primal lizard-brain instinct, draws him closer to the scene. This kill should be his. The stag is not welcome in his forest. He will take his prize, even as his human heart is begging and pleading _no, no, no_.

As he approaches, the stag looks up at him, then backs away. Will pounces on the corpse – most of the organs are missing, but the heart and liver are perfect and pristine. The stag has saved the king's portion for him, and he will not waste it. He tears the liver out of the body, bites down. Earth and blood and _life_ and it's so good, _fuck it's so_ _good_ but then he sees Abigail's face. He's eating the liver of Abigail Hobbs, and her mouth is asking why, and he drops her liver and shrieks.

The stag bellows, and charges. Will reaches out, struggles to do something, _anything,_ but it's like he's underwater. His limbs flail about, utterly refusing to cooperate. He manages to hold his right arm over his face as the beast leaps at him, fanged mouth agape -

Will wakes up tangled in a damp pile of sheets, gasping for air.

After a hot shower and three cups of coffee, Will doesn't feel _better_ but he does feel _functional_ , and figures that's good enough for now. He settles in to reading the morning paper, and Winston sniffs at his leg. As he reaches down to give the mutt's ear a scratch, Will knocks the envelope off the table.

With a curse, he grabs it and tears it open. The floral smell spills out and gives way to meticulous hand-lettering.

 

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter_

_requests the pleasure of your company at dinner_

_on the evening of Friday the -_

 

He crumples it up and stomps into the kitchen to throw it away. Then he uncrumples it and puts it under a fridge magnet advertising Domino's specials. Hannibal would no doubt find that far more insulting, anyway.

The afternoon finds him tying a trout fly in the shed out back, trying to distract himself. The dream – the woods, the black stag, _eating Abigail_ , nearly being eaten – it loops over in his mind as the thread loops over feathers and hair, to be knotted and cut short and made perfect for attracting prey. This one is not his best work. Little bubbles of elk hair peek out where they shouldn't, and one knot is maddeningly loose in a spot too far up to fix. Close enough for government work, though. Just like him.

_Am I the fisherman, or the bait?_

He is not surprised when Jack calls telling him to meet in his office.

“Will. I need you to do something for me.” As always. Will focuses on a spot four inches in front of Jack's face, and scratches a bump on his right wrist; it feels like a splinter, but it's too deep to do anything about. His thoughts meander back to the black stag.

Jack slams his hand on his desk, and snaps Will back to reality. “You weren't even paying attention. I need you at one hundred percent.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Tomorrow you're going to see Dr. Lecter.”

“My appointment isn't for another week.”

“I don't _care._ You're going in tomorrow, you're going to get your shit sorted, and you're going to get back to work. Do you understand me, Will?”

“Perfectly.” For a split-second, Will imagines his hands around Jack's neck, squeezing his carotids until he drops. It feels better than it should. Then he excuses himself from the office.

Tonight, Will's dream is different. The wood is the same, with the black pool of blood and sticky red leading away, and the _smell_ of it, thick and familiar. But there is no corpse, no stag, waiting at the end of the winding trail.

There is a man. Or maybe something that was a man, once; Will has yet to meet one with such a large rack of antlers, with skin as pitch-black as the monster stag. He is shiny and wet all over and smells of blood, and rises as Will moves into the clearing.

“Tell me who you are,” Will calls out, trying and probably failing to sound commanding.

The man does not answer, but walks closer, and blinks.

“No. Stay where you are. I'm warning you.” Even as he speaks Will feels pathetic, powerless.

The creature comes right up to him, bare feet – _feet_ , not hooves – crunch-crunching in the snow. Their breath forms a cloud between them.

“I need to know who you are,” Will begs, in the tiniest of whispers.

The monster grabs his face and kisses him, long and deep. He tastes of blood, and it's as rich and vital and nourishing as Abigail's liver had been the night before. Horrifying and thrilling in equal measure.

Will reaches up to caress the beast's cheek, and it returns the favor by biting off his hand. He screams.

The next moment, Will is awake, and both hands spasm and clench at the ends of his wrists. Maybe he does need to see the doctor today.

Knowing he _needs_ it doesn't make sitting across from Hannibal in his elegant office less insufferable, however, and he scratches at his right wrist again in lieu of paying attention. His answers are clipped, distant. He can see that damn splinter more clearly today, a little black line, but it's no closer to the surface.

“I can understand why Jack was so insistent that you see me. Your legendary focus seems to elude you today, Will.”

“Can't put anything past you, Doctor Lecter.” Will sighs and looks toward the window. “I think I'm starting to fray around the edges.”

Hannibal's lips quirk slightly upward at the corners; it is a crude mockery of a normal smile. “And are you afraid I'm going to pull the thread that unravels you?”

“No, Doctor. I'm afraid you're going to sweep me off the table, just so you can watch me shatter.”

This time the good doctor has the decency to keep any trace of amusement far away from his face. “Why take the risk of shattering you, knowing you won't come back together and leap up into my hand?” He puts his pen to his notebook, jots down a few notes, then closes it and sets it aside. “I think that's a fine stopping point for this session. Shall I tell Jack you're fit to continue your work at the Bureau?”

Will sighs. “Tell him whatever you like. He's going to work me to death either way.”

Hannibal folds his hands in his lap. “Perhaps some levity may be in order then, before your inevitable shuffle from the mortal coil. I trust you have received your invitation to dinner on Friday?”

“You know I'm not really one for parties, Hannibal.”

“That explains your unfortunate lack of RSVP. You should know, Will, that this dinner is intended to be a private affair. Me, cooking a meal for a friend.”

“Should I be nervous, then?”

Hannibal smiles, a real one this time. “Not with me. I'll see you Friday, at seven o'clock.”

_Damn you._ “I'll be there,” Will says flatly.

When Will closes his eyes to sleep, he returns to the cursed wood once again, and sighs in frustration. “This is becoming a chore,” he mutters to no-one in particular, following the blood laid out like a red carpet on white snow.

Tonight he comes face to face with his own dead body, pierced all over with sticks, medical implements, and carved bones. He's seen this tableau before, but can't for the life of him remember where.

Corpse-Will's eyes pop open. “ _Become_ ,” it cries out. When he looks at his own hands, they are gone.

He has hooves and black feathers there, now. There is nothing left to do but eat.

A shot rings out in the darkness, somewhere far away. Blood pours out from his own mouth.

Will jerks awake. He needs a shower. He needs a fucking vacation. But he rolls out of bed and gets ready for work instead.

Dodging Jack Crawford is easier than he thought it would be. Grading students' papers chews through the hours surprisingly quickly, and something in his demeanor today makes most people steer clear.

Alana, however, is not most people, and takes the seat in front of his desk. He does not look at her.

She refuses to sit and be ignored. “Will,” she says with a frown, “you haven't been sleeping.”

_Oh, I've been sleeping. I just can't deal with what I see when I do._ “No. I haven't.”

“You really need to start taking better care of yourself. Jack's worried about you.”

“Heh. More like he needs to make sure his favorite toy doesn't break.” His pen digs harder into the essay in front of him, hard enough to tear a hole in the paper.

“Cynicism aside, Jack's not the only one who worries about you. At least Hannibal is making sure you eat real food.”

Will looks up. “What about you, Alana?”

“Just call me Ms. Sandman.” She fishes an orange bottle out of her pocket and places it on the paper squarely in front of him, then gets up to leave. “Be well, Will. And for the love of god stop picking at your wrist. It's distracting.”

He hasn't even noticed he's doing it, but the splinter is closer to the surface now. He can _almost_ get the end of it, but if he took tweezers to it it'd just make a big hole.

The pill bottle says take two. On Thursday night Will takes three, and does not dream at all.

Friday afternoon sees Will browsing the ABC Store to find an appropriate host gift. His first thought is a bottle of wine, but he figures that would be like buying a box of Crayola for Rembrandt. Bourbon it is, then. Top shelf, of course; if he had Pappy Van Winkle money that would be a fine choice, but Blanton's Single Barrel is all a government paycheck will allow. It doesn't matter. Hannibal isn't going to drink it anyway, and the bottle will look nice enough on the shelf collecting dust.

At six thirty-seven, Will pulls up into Hannibal's driveway.

At six fifty-eight, he walks up to the door.

At precisely seven o'clock, he knocks.

“Will – please come in, it's open,” calls Hannibal's disembodied voice. “My hands are busy at the moment.”

He enters the dining room to see Hannibal carving paper-thin sheets of prosciutto from a haunch, and draping them onto halved figs and slices of ripe melon. A basket of warm bread sits at the center of the table, along with a little dish of oil and balsamic vinegar. Two glasses of wine have already been poured. “Help yourself, Will. My home is yours for the evening.” 

“Thank you, Doctor Lecter.” He holds up the bottle of Blanton's. “For the host.”

“No titles in the dining room. You're here as my friend as well as my guest.” Hannibal's smile is downright predatory as he grasps the bottle of bourbon, brushes his fingers against Will's. “This looks exquisite. I hope it didn't set you back too much.”

Will shrugs. “Don't trouble yourself about it.” He gestures at a wineglass. “May I?” He picks it up and takes a sip when the doctor nods. “This is nice. What is it, Chianti?”

“We'll make a connoisseur of you yet, Will,” Hannibal says. “Eat up, I have a little more work to do in the kitchen.”

The prosciutto and fruit is delicious, and a good complement to the wine, and despite everything that's happened this week, Will starts to relax. Whatever Hannibal is making in the kitchen smells amazing; he kicks himself mentally for nearly throwing out the invite. Before he can overthink the situation, Hannibal comes back with another wine bottle and two clean glasses.

“Amarone della Valpolicella, to accompany our supper,” he answers in anticipation of Will's question. “Normally I prefer to pair it with organ meats, but it will suit tonight's main course just as well. I hope you're fond of osso buco.”

“Never had it before,” says Will.

Hannibal shakes his head. “A tragic state of affairs. Thank goodness you're here tonight to correct it.”

When his plate is brought out, the shank sitting in a lovely red-brown gravy atop a bed of creamy polenta and accompanied by stir-fried broccoli rabe, Will can't help but agree. He feels rather like one of his dogs, mouth watering and waiting until bid to dig in.

Hannibal holds up his wineglass. “A toast. To honor the sacrifice made by the dead to sustain the living.”

Suddenly Will remembers why he crumpled the invitation in the first place. He adds, “To a memorable meal,” and tucks in.

It's good. It's better than good. The polenta is silky and luscious, and the greens garlicky and fresh, but the meat – the _meat_ – is falling from the bone, yielding into savory tenderness on his tongue. It tastes like earth, and blood, and life, and protein scramble and Abigail's liver and the kiss from the wendigo and . . .

Will sets his fork down and tries to slow his breathing. His fingers fly to his wrist again, to dig at the splinter which _finally_ comes free, after a week of prickly suffering. It sticks to his left middle fingertip and he steals a glance.

It's not a splinter.

He flicks away the tiny black feather – the one unlike any in his fly tying kit, the one he has seen only in his nightmares – and pretends everything is fine.

He takes another bite of veal.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as a Christmas gift for my nearest and dearest friend, and was posted with her permission. Assume it takes place somewhere between Will suspecting Hannibal is the Ripper, and knowing it for a fact. It was alternately joyous and hellish to write. I hope you hate it like I do, and love it like she does.
> 
> -T_C


End file.
